Teaser 003: A Failed Writer


I was a failed writer. Not to mean that I failed to write anything or that I couldn't finish anything I started. No, I don't mean that. I wrote my first novel to prove I could write and finish and had written three more, all in fifteen years, which is speedy for old school, so I had proven I could write and finish. “I was a failed writer” means nobody read anything I wrote, which is not to say that nobody read any of it, but family and friends don't count, do they? Especially when one or more say, “you're great, you read like Hemingway,” but he blew his brains out with a shotgun in his old age. Not exactly role model material, considering that I am now an old man with failing body parts—nope, not that one—but I was running through the last of my money, damn near flat broke, with about zero prospects for further income and a good five years away from social security. A shotgun to the brain pan didn't seem all that objectionable. I didn't have a shotgun but I was thinking I could buy a handgun, rob a pharmacy of a large quantity of prescription barbiturates and suck down the entire mass as the means to an end, the end, but doing so in a manner which created very little mess to clean up. Have you ever cleaned up brain splatter at a crime scene? You probably haven't. It's unpleasant. With pills, they merely haul my body away, careful to keep the last load of crap inside my pants. You didn't know that either, that most people shit a load of crap after they die? At any time there's two or three or more crap loads in your intestines, the only thing holding it all back is your handy-dandy, trusty sphincter muscle, which is relieved of duty once your brain ceases function. You young pups didn't know that? But you know everything, don't you? Of course you do, and when you don't, you fake it. But here I am again, always thinking of you, because I love you. After all, you are my cousins, those indeterminate number of generations removed, all proven through DNA analysis, so you're all family to me. Heck, we're all family, so why haven't you invited me to Thanksgiving dinner? This is how you treat family? You're pathetic!

I rambled down interstate 5 through the barren, unpopulated rural country of central California—which does not exist anymore, even back then, primarily due to the unchecked birth rate of Catholic, Spanish-speaking humans with one singularity, to reclaim the land stolen from them nearly two centuries earlier and doing a fine job of it since the mission is nearly complete, although there is a sizable competition from the consistent flow of immigrant Asians, which means, of course, that all of this rings with a racist bent, but I'm not a racist since I don't even give a rat's ass about race. It means that it's all too true, and truth is what you can count on from me, even if it fucking hurts—drinking beer because I like drinking beer and I didn't care any more about sage convention and wisdom. I was an old man with nothing to lose so who are you to tell me what to do? That I should flaunt your convention and wisdom until eventually pulled over by California's finest and placed in confinement for possession of a controlled substance had no effect on me. Controlled substance?

“I'm placing you under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.”

“As well you should, officer, since drinking beer down this interstate has been under my complete control for hours!”

Sucking down the beers while flying down the interstate—at the inconceivable rate of sixty-five miles per hour, inconceivable so that everyone else was flying by me and often greeting me warmly with a blast from the horn of their shiny California cars—all under my diligent and complete control, I felt the urge to pee like a race horse. Race horses, though, have far more experience fucking like race horses when put out to pasture after pasture, after the exchange of tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars for “stud fees,” to jump on the back of some shivering female with their front hooves and pumping away deliriously after shoving that huge pink penis inside the female's equally huge love canal. Yep, there's the life for me, a race horse put out to pasture, and you can see it in the eyes of the really great ones. Those incredibly successful race horses know what's coming so don't tell me they don't. You can see it in their eyes. They know what's going to happen for the next twenty-five years. If they could talk, they'd say, “Yep, Wilbur, I can tolerate running around an oval for three to five years, but it's the following twenty-five years of hard fucking that I'm going to appreciate because I was bred to do it. If I was bred to do anything, I was bred to fuck like a race horse.” Yep, those eyes tell the whole story. They know it, but I had to stop to pee like one. I didn't have that life.

I soon passed the blue sign, the one declaring “REST AREA.” It was a couple miles away and I knew I could hold back the race horse pee for a couple more minutes, thanks to the rest stop somewhere near Bakersfield, which has now produced a sprawl which reaches just miles from the city limits of Gilroy, so it was somewhere in that mess. And since I was in or near Bakersfield, depending on the whims of the city council, I couldn't help thinking, I wonder if I'll see a girl with far away eyes at this rest stop. Every time I think of Bakersfield, I think of the Rolling Stones and Mick Jagger meeting the girl with far away eyes in some truck stop near Bakersfield, after running twenty red lights in honor of Jesus. Thank you, Jesus—Christ, that is, not Jesus from the barrio. So I reached the “REST AREA” and pulled off the interstate with horns aplenty, and raced to the closest parking space near the facility, which seemed to be some five thousand yards away, almost a mile. I could walk to it backwards and pee on the way, I thought, but decided against it in the interests of public decency, since whipping out my old man's cock could be considered indecent unless it follows a merciless teasing of some poor woman's love tunnel via incessant one and two finger probing until she finally shouts, “Are you gonna fuck me or what?” At that point, the only decent thing to do is to whip out my old man's cock. No, I'll whip it out standing before an open urinal. Convention dictates it and I actually follow some conventions, but only those which are convenient. If the convention is inconvenient, I always consider how to avoid it. I have become a master at avoiding inconvenient conventions. You will never spot me there.


- Just Desserts, Segment One “Welcome to Lost Anglos” by Gregory R. Schussele, © 2021

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